Perfecta Saxonia: The Unification of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms - John Broughton

Historical Fiction Set In 9th Century England

Perfecta Saxonia: The Unification of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Sondwic, Kent, 895 AD

“We should take a ship down the Temes and up the Lygan,” the Aetheling Edward said. “You have a choice of ships moored here in the Stour.”

I blanched at the suggestion. Cowering against my father’s cloak on the roaring, ice-cold sea, comforted by his protective arm was a thing of the past. To command a long-ship over the horizon amid the salt waves tossing was another matter.

“Do I see fear in your face, Lord Ecgwulf?” Edward jibed.

Hot denial burnt in my cheeks, for I held back rash words, bitten off by a blessed residue of good sense. At least his request came in late spring with the weather set fair, I reasoned.

“There are several seaworthy vessels,” I agreed when I found my voice again.

“Then we should take as many around the Thanet ness and into the Temes as you can spare crews for. Our reception in the River Lygan might be warm,” he chuckled.

The next three days passed in a bustle of preparations. I decided to leave Osbald behind, charged with protecting the settlement in our absence. He could still call on a hundred men, most of them used to fighting. On the fourth morning, with the quickening tide, we cast off, our heartfelt farewells, in my case, soon forgotten in the dread I felt as the sails unfurled. The wind-ruffled feathers of terns swooping around the masthead caught my eye, and for a foolish moment, I wished to fly away with them. Instead, two fearsome adversaries awaited me, or so I persuaded myself: the sea and the Norsemen. In truth, my real opponent stood in my own shoes – the obstacle to overcome being insecurity due to lack of experience and immaturity. If anyone dared question these things to my face, I’d draw Breath Stealer on him.

The prows of our warships cleft through the grey-brown waters at the mouth of the estuary, and we headed into the open sea. My arrangement to save face was with one of Father’s thegns. Beforehand, in private, I told him to make silent signals to me so I should appear to be in command. To my relief, the message of his gnarled, scarred hand, hidden from general view, was clear.

A swift glance at Edward, who was staring back at the outlet whence we had sailed, convinced me he had not noticed. So, with a leap on a bench at the base of the mast, my arm clinging to the latter, I called to the steersman to veer northward along the Thanet coast. My voice rang out to him in the stern with ease, and he signalled his acknowledgement. How gratifying to see the look of approval on the face of my wife-brother. This first test of my leadership mastered, I glanced back to see our six other ships veer in our wake. The voyage to the mouth of the Temes passed without incident. The harmless passage of merchant vessels, invariably hailed in greetings from our decks, broke the monotony of the ocean’s heave.

The unseeing eyes of the wolf-head prow, we fitted as a signal of our warlike intentions, pitched over the choppy approach where the river embraced the sea. The intensity of its wooden gaze scarcely matched that of Edward as we searched warily for enemy craft. But we sought in vain. Within the hour we were amid the cries and odours of the bustling port of Lundenwic.

“Father keeps talking about repairing the stone fortifications,” said Edward pointing back downstream to where the ruins of Londinium stood. “The Danes stayed there four winters past.”

“Regarding the Norsemen, where is the mouth of the Lygan, do you know?”

Edward shook his mane of chestnut-brown hair.

Without continuing the conversation, I strode over to my old sea-dog adviser and bent over his grey-haired head to exchange words.

Satisfied, I straightened and roared, “Man the oars!” I cupped my hands and shouted the order to the other ships from Sondwic.

In reply to Edward’s quizzical look, I explained, “One of our greybeards knows it well. We cannot enter the river under sail, and it flows into the Temes another two bends to the west, upstream.”

“Excellent!” Edward clapped me on the back, his eyes flashed with eagerness.

It was at that moment I wondered whether he had a plan other than to sail into the dragon’s lair. I suppose I did not ask for fear he might interpret my question as a lack of faith or worse. But I must admit to being worried. Bereft of information about King Alfred’s movements and plans, we headed into the Lygan, seven ships’ crews to face a Norse army – like cattle to the slaughter.

In my total ignorance of events, owing to my blissful childhood disinterest, I did not know the King camped near the Danish fortress to contain the Norsemen. Neither was I aware he had overseen the building of two fortresses lower down the Lygan, so the invaders could not get their ships back out. My relief was great when Edward chose to inform me, but it might not have been so, had I known at what precise time we were to arrive.

My first taste of warfare was from a distance and one of bitter defeat. The King’s army was marching on the Danish fortress, and we were in time to watch helplessly as the defenders emerged to put their assailants to flight. Nevertheless, my initiative was later to gain me the approval of Alfred. Seeing that we were too late to join in anything but a rout, I ordered my men back to the boats and thence along the river to where the Norse long-ships rocked at their moorings under the supervision of a handful of unfortunates whom we slaughtered. We cut free the most attractive of the vessels and towed them back down the river while, as a farewell, we left the rest to blaze and darken the skies with smoke. The only part Edward played in this enterprise was to hail the new fortresses Alfred had constructed.

On seeing a small fleet approaching with a black cloud billowing behind it downstream, they had taken up their bows and raised an iron chain boom across the river to prevent passage. At Edward’s bellowed command, they slackened the boom which sank to the riverbed and un-nocked their arrows. We rowed back to the Temes unmolested, cheered by having snatched a minor victory from the maws of defeat. Only later, did we learn that the Norsemen, deprived of their ships, marched overland to a place called Cwatbridge on high ground overlooking the great Saefern River. There, they built a fortress and spent the winter. By taking their vessels, we had drawn the dragon’s teeth, but its fiery breath remained to ravage the land.

In the Temes, Edward insisted on leaving us at Lundenwic.

“Give Ecgwynn my love and tell her I will come as soon as I can,” he instructed me, “and, Ecgwulf, today you rendered great service to your King, he shall know of it. Safeguard my wife at whatever cost!”

Upon that gratuitous admonition, he took his leave. With mixed feelings, I watched him go. Wasn’t his place with his spouse? Or was it with his father, the King? In my opinion, it was both. But then, what value had my simple ponderings in a world wracked by slaughter, plunder, and destruction?

We sailed into the Stour with our trophies, a return greeted by the measured gaze of appreciation in weather-beaten, lined faces on the river bank of Sondwic. These men knew full well how much grief and havoc only one of these sleek craft could carry to innocent farmsteads and churches inland, and we had seized a dozen.

My greeting from Ecgwynn was far more emotional. She clung to me like a limpet to a rock and only after my fulsome reassurances as to Edward’s wellbeing did she relax.

“Join me in a glass of mead,” I suggested.

That is when she delivered her own news.

“I fear I would not keep it down, Ecgwulf. My stomach refuses anything but water in the morning.”

It is true I was dulled by weariness and the strain of the last few days, so my usual quick wits deserted me on this occasion.

“Are you unwell, sister?”

Her beautiful face lit up, a teasing laugh revealed the depths of her joy and the secret her womb held, to my re-awakening acuity.

“You are with child!” I cried as if emerging from a dream, “I am to be an uncle! Winstan, where are you? You dullard! Fetch me mead!” I gazed at Ecgwynn and thought her the comeliest woman in Kent. My heart swelled. “We must celebrate,” I cried, snatching up my glass and quaffing the honeyed beverage in one avid draught. “Another!” I commanded Winstan, “this is a great occasion! Shame Edward isn’t here to share the moment,” I said thoughtlessly and had to squeeze Ecgwynn’s hand to set matters aright. I delivered his message that he would return as soon as he could and this restored Ecgwynn’s smile.

“I can’t wait to see his face when he hears the news!” I grinned in her face, and she nodded, not without anxiety.

“Do you think he will share our joy?”

The question struck me as ridiculous.

“Of course, he will! Why wouldn’t he? I swear I know him better than you, sister.”

At this, she bared her teeth and snapped, “I doubt that very much!”

“How then can you question your husband’s reaction? I’m sure you will make him the happiest man in the kingdom.”

“I hope his father feels the same way,” she said, and her eyes gleamed with tearful brightness.

Then I remembered Edward’s parting words. But first, I said, “I slew four Danes myself,” and the memory of killing a man for the first time clouded my face. “We took twelve of their ships and burnt the rest of their fleet.” I stared at my sister. “Edward promised me the King would know of my service. It can only help our family!”

At this, she smiled. “Father, gazing from heaven above, will be proud of you. You will become a great warrior like him.”

That, of course, was my ardent desire, but first I would have to hold my place in the terrifying shield wall. What I had seen of the Norsemen’s wrath made it a frightening prospect.

“Do not weep, Ecgwynn! Not on this most joyous of days. All will be well, trust me!”

Although I spoke so full of confidence, my heart was less secure. I had been confident that Alfred would thrash the Danes, the opposite had happened – so much for my certainties.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: Perfecta Saxonia: The Unification of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Medieval Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 234

IN THE BLOG: Historical Novels Set In Medieval England